I have been happy for sixteen days now.
For sixteen days, I have believed that I am not less useless than a piece of junk furniture and weaker than a broken lock.
For sixteen days, I have reacted to every nightmare by simply ignoring it and focusing on the good things and amazing people in my life.
For sixteen days, I have looked in the mirror each morning, scolded myself for trying to judge the reflection in the mirror and tried to become the image that was previously reflected there.
For sixteen days, I have smiled, laughed, giggled and teased when it would have been so much easier to crawl into a hole
For sixteen days, I have tried to become what I was; I have tried to become what I should be, I have tried the clichéd approach.
For sixteen days, I have convinced myself that this is the end of what I had made myself out to be.
Sixteen days of delusions, of happiness, of grandeur; broken by one single true moment.
This sixteenth day, I have collapsed with tears streaming down my face without any apparent reason. Hating, loathing myself for being so weak, carefully positioning the phone and the chat option online away from sight to keep myself from showing, from sharing this weakness.
This sixteenth day, the dam of all those thoughts, so carefully brushed aside, has broken. The safe that stored each and every negative truth has been prised open by the pressure of trying to live each day, each second normally.
The hatred I feel for myself as I write this surprises me. Back to weak ways. Oh well, I guess I always knew the truth deep down already.
You know what I miss the most about those sixteen days?
Not disappointing the people who love me.